Monthly Archives: December 2014

The Strangeness of Comfort

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When our friend is hurting, we want to comfort him.

Even when we’re not sure how.

I want to try and describe what it’s been like to receive comfort and encouragement since my dad’s suicide. Not to embarrass anyone or to complain or anything, but because I’m learning that even comforting others can be messy business.

It’s been my experience that nearly everyone wants to help somehow, but very few really know how. Which is completely understandable. Heck, I don’t really even know how! One thing I’ve noticed is that people give advice that I know intellectually is good, but I still have a hard time putting it into practice. For instance, I’ve been told by many to focus on good memories of my dad. I’ve done this and will continue to, but at this point even good memories make me sad. They’re still shocking. Like, yesterday I was driving to meet some friends at a restaurant and passed my kids’ old pre-school on the way. I remembered my dad coming to their Christmas concerts and how he’d sit with them and help decorate cookies and let them show him around their classroom…and those are really good memories. But, they surprised me and they made me sad. And I know being sad is ok – even good – it’s just hard. Some day I know I’ll be able to remember things fondly, but it feels like that might be a while yet.

Then there’s this: My friend Cabell tragically and unexpectedly lost her dad when she was young and I remember her telling me years ago about this phenomenon wherein the one who needs comfort essentially has to become the comforter. This happens because people want to help, but they’re not sure what to say or do, so then it becomes my job to let them know that’s ok. There’s nothing wrong with that at all, it just…is. I find myself doing it quite often now. “I’m so, so sorry…I don’t know what to say…” someone tells me. “It’s ok. I know. Thank you,” I reply.

Even heartfelt condolences and encouragement are tough. I sent out an update for the Kickstarter project the other day and, honestly, I was scared to. I was scared because I knew people were going to send me messages saying how sorry they were and how much they cared about me and that they’d be praying for me and my family at Christmas…which is exactly what happened. I knew it would, too, because I know the incredible character of the people in the Living One-Handed Family. And I knew that every message would make me cry (they did), which is great, don’t get me wrong! I’m a huge fan of crying, I’ve just been doing a lot of it and it’s exhausting. And honestly, part of me feels like I don’t deserve it. Even so, every message reminds me that there are people who love and care about me and that makes me feel really good.

“So, what’s the answer, Ryan? How do I comfort those who have experienced tragic loss?”

I can tell you that for me the answer is simple: Hugs. Freakin’ hugs, man. I can’t get enough of ‘em. Hugs don’t need words. To me, hugs mean love. When you hug me, you’re comforting me in ways words can only dream about. “Man, I wish I could be a hug,” words say.

Some people don’t like hugs, though. And that’s ok. I pray for them.

In general, I think simply telling someone you care about them and that you’re there for them is enough. If you actually want to be a part of the healing process, ask how we’re doing, but I’ll be honest – it’s hard to know how honest to be when asked that question.

The truth is, comforting someone during and after a traumatic event is really stinkin’ hard. That’s just the truth. We all do our best to muddle through; the comforters and the comforted. Laugh together, cry together, get mad together, stare off into the sunset together…this is all messy, but as long as we know that, let’s just love each other through it the best we can.

And more hugs.

If you’re into that.

The Suddenness of Death…and Life

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“He’s just…gone.”

I sat on my brother’s bed shortly after they took my dad away and I said that phrase over and over. That’s it. Period. The story he told with his life was finished. He wouldn’t add anything else.

That’s one of the many strange things about an unexpected death. One minute they’re here…the next they’re gone. That’s it. It’s different when someone is going through a lengthy illness or has reached the end of a long life. It’s still sad and painful when we lose them, but there’s a preparation that takes place. There’s time for saying goodbye. You can ask questions you’ve been wondering about and reminisce with them. When my grandpa passed away, it made sense. It wasn’t a shock. It was incredibly painful to lose him, especially for my dad, but it certainly wasn’t unexpected. Once he died, we mourned his loss, but thanked God for the long life he lived and the example he was for all of us.

I wish we could have done that for my dad…30 years from now.

But, as sudden and as painful as my dad’s death was and continues to be, today I was reminded that life happens just as suddenly.

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It’s Been Three Weeks

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Yesterday makes three weeks since I lost my dad.

There are times it feels like forever ago and other times – like today – when it feels like it was yesterday.

11:25am “LITERAL 911! CALL ME NOW!”

I’ll never forget seeing that text from my wife and the subsequent phone call. “I don’t know how to tell you this. Joey told me to stay calm,” she said.

Today I had an early lunch – 11:30am – and I drove the same route I took at the same time three weeks ago, only this time slower and for different reasons.

People keep asking me how I’m doing.

That’s a difficult question to answer, honestly.

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How We Told the Kids: A Mother’s Perspective

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My wife is incredible. She has been my rock throughout the last few weeks. She’s also an amazing writer. So, when she said she, too, wanted to share her experience of telling our kids about my dad’s passing, my heart leapt. The following piece is her perspective of the events so far. Be moved. Be encouraged.

I am the oldest of four kids, and throughout my childhood, my parents would call us together for “Family Meetings” on a fairly regular basis. I have very distinct memories of 3 of those meetings, when instead of bouncing around and chatting about piano recitals or family trips, we were told solemnly to “sit down so we can talk”. We could feel the atmosphere change during these family meetings, and we would just stay quiet as we watched my father tear up and my mother console him as he filled us in on the deaths of three of my grandparents. It was difficult, but manageable. The weeks after these meetings were full of relatives and funerals and then we would fall back into our loud, busy lifestyle. After those few years, we never had any serious family meetings like that again. They are just a memory for me now.

When Ryan and I had children and I became a part of the HUMONGOUS Haack family, I knew that difficult family meetings come with the territory. I have been preparing myself for the conversations that are required for parenthood since Sam was born. I am ready to discuss braces, prom dates, first jobs, college choices, “the talk”, and even death. I just had this image of us sitting in our living room, calm, yet tearing up as we described the passing of any of our loved ones. I thought I was prepared for all of this.

Turns out, there is NO WAY to prepare for having to tell three precious children that their beloved “Papa” had taken his own life.

Gramma Donna, Papa and the kids

Gramma Donna, Papa and the kids

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How We Told Our Kids About Their Papa’s Suicide

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“Mom, today I’m gonna wear the boots Papa gave me. They’re awesome. I’m gonna wear ‘em when he takes me hunting, too!”

That’s what my son said to my wife the morning after my father’s death, before we had told him what happened.

I’m still not sure how she didn’t break.

 

The boots Papa gave to Sam.

The boots Papa gave to Sam.

Far and away the most difficult task in the immediate aftermath of my dad’s death was having to tell my kids.

What will we say? And when? How much will we tell them? Will they understand it? Are they going to scream and cry? Is Anna going to be her stoic little self? Is this going to break Sam? Can we do this?

It was daunting, to say the least. On Monday night my wife called a counselor friend of ours who gave us great advice and we did our best to follow it. She said to tell the kids (Sam, 10, Anna, 9, Claire, 7) as far away from bedtime as possible, which ruled out Tuesday, so Julie and I prayed together Tuesday night and prepared to tell the kids Wednesday morning so we’d have all day to be together.

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My Father’s Suicide: Making Sense of the Nonsensical

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On November 12th, 2014, I wrote a post titled “How To Talk To Someone Struggling With Depression.” It was about the stigma that still exists around issues of mental health and how we can help each other communicate appropriately. In it I mentioned my Uncle Ed’s suicide from nearly 30 years ago. I didn’t publish the post because I thought I sounded like a jerk and wanted to figure out how to rewrite it with a more encouraging tone.

On November 17th, 2014, my father took his own life.

This post is part of my process, part of my healing. It’s not all-inclusive and I don’t have all the answers.

But, I do have my experience. And maybe my experience can help you. I pray that it would.

I know for me, it was hard to believe that what happened was true. I have never used the word “unbelievable” more literally in my entire life. It’s strange what your brain does when you lose someone unexpectedly. For the first few days there were times I fully expected him to walk in the room and everything would be ok. Even at the visitation when I saw him laying there, I had this feeling he was going to open his eyes and say, “Hey! Why the hell am I in this box??”

But he didn’t. It was true. And it’s still true today.

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